


See the cost is more than what you get paid (do it anyway)

by azurejay (andchimeras)



Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Blow Jobs, Break Up, Casual Sex, Fights, Flashback, Gen, M/M, POV Outsider, Workplace, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-10
Updated: 2011-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-14 15:45:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andchimeras/pseuds/azurejay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Them's the breaks, and ain't it always the way: it takes you back to from where it is you came." Flashback 2008. Everybody grows up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	See the cost is more than what you get paid (do it anyway)

**Author's Note:**

> Title/summary from "Road Regrets" by Dan Mangan. I've had this off/on craving for NSA Patrick/Brendon studio-related shenanigans, and eventually I just started writing some myself. I've also wanted FAD recording tiems Pete'n'Patrick angst, so. Convergence, whoo. Also, okay, I love Patrick Vaughn Stump. A lot. He's my favourite. Even favourites get to be something like villains sometimes. Thank you to lalejandra and northern for beta assistance in time of great need!

The spraypaint on Pete's t-shirt was crusty, plasticky, coming up under Brendon's nails like a scab. Pete's stubble harsh on his chin, cheeks, the smell of Pete's hair dye and sweat colluding with the taste of beer and Pizza Pops and the scent of Spencer's mom's detergent coming from baskets of clean laundry in the corner of the basement. Brendon felt starry and sparkling and spinny, like a pinwheel in high wind and bright sun.

It was the second time Pete came to Vegas, and the first time he kissed Brendon, though Brendon thought he might have kissed or been kissed by Ryan after that--they've never talked about it, and never will. It was just one kiss, no nudity--nothing below the waist, in fact--a very long, involved, sticky, brilliant kiss, but just one, all the same. They didn't do it again, ever, not yet, and as Brendon lets himself sink in to the warm leather nest of the chair in Patrick's dressing room at the studio, he doesn't think it very likely they'll ever get back to it, because this--this is more than a little better than a weird, sweaty make-out in someone else's basement.

Brendon pets Patrick affectionately on the head, and Patrick looks up at him, eyes crinkled and happily focused, cheeks flushed. Brendon smiles at him and gasps as Patrick squints up to the right and does something ridiculous with his tongue, the head of Brendon's cock pressed against the living, liquid velvet inside Patrick's cheek. The gasp trails off into a groan, low, from the still-echoing pit of his stomach. He feels the sound rubbing against sweet spots in his throat, thrumming from the recording session they just finished, the back of his mouth a little raw from putting the growl on.

Patrick pulls off with a pop, lazily sliding his hand up and down Brendon's cock instead, twisting his palm roughly over the head the end of each stroke. Brendon never bothers with that on his own, even though it always looks fun when he sees it in porn, and the tough skin of Patrick's hand feels _amazing_.

Patrick smiles at the rosy slickness of Brendon's cock, his free hand moving from Brendon's thigh to his own lap. Brendon breathes in deep when he hears the zipper, and moans as he watches Patrick tilt his head back and close his eyes and sigh.

"Oh, shit," Patrick pants, rubbing Brendon's cock against his cheek, spit shining on his flushed skin and slicking the edge of his sideburn. "Shit, man, do that again."

Brendon obligingly moans again, pressing his hips up and his hands to his chest, a good, hot pressure through his t-shirt, against his nipples.

Patrick presses his face to Brendon's balls, giving a long, hitching groan, obviously coming. The vibration and the moist rush of Patrick's breath and the noise itself sets Brendon off; he can feel his come squishing through Patrick's fingers, out of the firm grip of his fist, like some kind of fantastical combination of coming inside someone and coming in your pants.

"Jesus fuck, I needed that," Patrick sighs after a time, and Brendon can only nod floppily, head leaned over the back of the leather chair.

Patrick braces himself on Brendon's thighs when he gets up, and Brendon grumbles unhappily. Patrick laughs and kicks his foot lightly, reaching for his half-melted iced coffee.

"Back to work, slackass," he says, and takes a long drink.

Brendon hooks his sneaker around the back of Patrick's calf and tugs him back to the chair, and then closer, until Patrick leans one knee on the seat between Brendon's knees and bends down to kiss him: sweat smell and cold, weak coffee taste, and salt behind that.

There's a soft knock on the door and Patrick steps away, reaching for his hat while Brendon scrambles to tuck himself in and pull his shirt over his fly.

Pete sticks his head in to the room and blinks at them, tentative smile fading, eyes narrowing. "Neal's ready," he says finally, flatly.

"Okay," Patrick says, pulling his jacket back on, giving Pete a dismissive nod.

Pete crooks his mouth sardonically at Brendon and walks away from the door, leaving it open.

Brendon tugs on the hem of his shirt, unsure what to say, what to do, his tongue still cool and coffee-flavoured from Patrick's mouth.

"So thanks for helping out today," Patrick says. He slides his glasses back on and smiles happily at Brendon. "It's good to see you."

"Yeah," Brendon says, putting on an enthusiastic smile, nodding busily. "It was good to be here. I'm really, you know, I'm glad you guys asked me. Flashback 2005." He forces a laugh and winces at himself.

Patrick doesn't seem to notice Brendon's discomfort, wiping his hands with a wetnap from the box on the vanity. "I'm looking forward to hearing something new from you guys."

"Me too." And it's true, so his laugh is less forced. Patrick smirks back, an understanding smirk--a smirk of recognition.

"Well," Patrick says, slipping his cell phone in his pocket. He steps back up to Brendon and grabs him in a hug. Brendon closes his eyes and kisses Patrick's ear, since he can't reach his cheek.

"Have a safe drive home," Patrick says into Brendon's shoulder, and gives him a brief extra squeeze, fingers pressing into his back.

"Yeah, 'kay." Brendon nods and pats Patrick's back.

Patrick lets go and turns away without looking up at Brendon. He picks up his guitar and leaves the room, head bowed a little, mouth set in a grim line.

Brendon puts his coat on, listening to the indistinct voices down the hall outside. He stands near the door, bouncing on his toes a little, flexing his fingers, unsure if he should wait until things grow quiet. He cocks his head and cranes his neck and peeks out the gap between the door and its frame.

Pete is standing directly in the gap, across and about ten feet down the hall, outside the studio door. Patrick is beside him, hand on the doorknob, shaking his head.

Pete says something low and indistinct, and Patrick says, "I said it's none of your business."

"He's my business, I'm his fucking boss, Patrick," Pete says, and Patrick laughs meanly.

"So am I," he says. Brendon flinches; it wasn't like that; he knows all about saying the worst possible thing, just to hurt someone, no matter if it's true or not.

Pete's face turns to stone and he looks down at the floor, blinking rapidly. Brendon presses his fingers into the wall to remind himself he's here, watching, and wonders why he had to see this. What happened to living room jam sessions?

Pete's fingers clench, claw-like, around his elbows. "We're trying to work, here, and you--"

"We are working," Patrick says. "I'm trying to get _back_ to work, in fact, and I--"

"This isn't fucking Fleetwood Mac," Pete grits out. "You can't just--"

" _Fuck_ you," Patrick spits, and Pete shuts up. "Fuck you and fuck your knocked up fucking girlfriend and your cowardly fucking shotgun wedding and your _goddamn_ concept album, you fucking douchebag." He stabs his finger into Pete's chest and Pete's hands drop, fisted, to his sides, his eyes wide and his mouth twisted. "We're gonna go back in this fucking studio, and we're gonna finish this shit, and we're gonna tour until Joe and Andy are as sick of your bullshit as I am, and then we are _done_ , do you understand what I'm saying, Wentz?"

Brendon leans against the wall beside the door, mouth dry and eyes smarting from the fury in Patrick's face, in Patrick's voice. He looks down at his sneakers and hears Patrick say, "Well?" and Pete say, "Yeah, fucking--fine, okay, Jesus," tired and cracked. Brendon hadn't known it was this bad. His chest hurts; his throat aches.

The soundproof studio door thunks open and closed.

Brendon wipes his damp palms on his jeans and remembers Pete in Vegas again, sitting in the middle of the back seat of Spencer's mom's car: squished between Ryan and Brent, Spencer driving, Brendon in the passenger seat.

"I'm a motherfucking mogul in the making," Pete said. "You think Jay-Z sits in the goddamn front seat? Gimme some fucking room, here." And Ryan didn't exactly laugh, staring at Pete with his hands tucked between his knees, and Brent rolled his eyes and shifted over when Pete elbowed him with his sharp, sharp elbows.

Spencer's hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel, but he didn't look nervous. He didn't sound nervous when he barked at Ryan to move over, _Jesus Christ, dude_. Brendon was sitting half turned around in the seat and one of his hands was just sort of dangling between the seats, over the console, almost touching the ripped knee of Pete's tight, tight jeans.

Pete shifted his knees farther apart and grinned at Brendon under $3 sunglasses from the 7-11 by his school. "Patrick's gonna fucking love you, dude. Seriously." He made a heart shape with his hands in front of his chest and Brendon's fingers itched to replicate it. "Love."

Brendon smiled back and didn't look when Ryan scowled, didn't notice Brent staring blankly out the window, and didn't wonder where they were going, or why.

 

He puts his coat on and picks up his bag and his guitar before he opens the door. Pete is still in the hallway, face tilted towards the floor, hands in his hoodie pockets.

"Hey," Brendon says. He smiles a half-smile and shrugs with one shoulder when Pete looks up.

"Hey, um," Pete says. His face screws up and he looks down the hall. "It's fine, don't tell anybody about that, okay. Patrick and me--the band is fine."

Brendon blinks. "You guys fight all the time."

"Yeah," Pete says. "All the time." He looks at the floor some more. "You were sixteen when I met you," Pete says, wonderingly.

"Seventeen," Brendon says.

Pete scrubs at his face and fists his hands in his hair, looking up at Brendon. "Seventeen. Jesus Christ. How does that happen?" he says. "You were a kid when I met you. Six years ago. You were, like, _short_."

"You were younger, too," Brendon says gently. Pete shakes his head.

"I'm not--I'm always the same. Everybody else, though--you keep getting, like." He squeezes his eyes shut and sighs, heart-heavy. "Ryan and Spencer. Andy and Joe were fifteen--"

"Pete, dude," Brendon says. He drops his stuff and steps across the hall to put his hands on Pete's shoulders. This falling apart is too familiar; it's not right. "You and Andy are the same age, man, come on."

"Patrick was fifteen," Pete says quietly. "You guys--you were kids." Brendon breathes out slowly; this is the real thing, here. Pete lets go of his hair, clumps sticking up, stiff with product, and puts his hands around Brendon's wrists. Brendon steps closer and tilts his head down and kisses Pete on the cheek, because Pete is married now, and this isn't like that, anyway. He can feel Pete smile against his lips; Pete flexes his fingers around Brendon's wrists once, lifts Brendon's hands off of him, and steps to the side.

Brendon looks at their hands between them, and at Pete. "You can't change it," Brendon says.

"No, I can't change it," Pete says. "I wouldn't. I mean. I wouldn't change it. I'm going to be a dad."

Brendon feels like his face might crack when he smiles at that. "Yeah, pretty soon, even."

Pete smiles back, sadly, and lets go of Brendon. "You just keep growing up."

"And up and up," Brendon agrees.

"Yeah," Pete says. He looks at the studio door, face undreadable. "Up and up and away."

 

End.


End file.
